Last week, Instagram Stories lit up with images from Frieze Seoul. I didn’t make the trip this time. Instead, I was caught up in the aftermath of my own exhibition opening at RONG LU—the art space I rather impulsively founded upon returning to Shanghai last year, against the well-meaning advice of friends in the gallery world.

As the stream of posts rolled in—exhibition snapshots, glittering parties, the art world in full display—I noticed, to my surprise, the absence of FOMO. What I felt instead was a sharper sense of clarity. My fascination with the spectacle of art fairs and their attendant theatrics has gradually faded. What holds my attention now feels quieter, more elemental: the slow building of my own projects, and the simple pleasure of swimming in the sea with European country boys, far from the noise.

Last night, over dinner with two art-world confidantes who, like me, had skipped Seoul, the conversation drifted easily from memory to diagnosis. I first met them years ago during the era of Picasso and the Single Girls—my early WeChat column that mixed anthropology of the art world with sly portraits of cosmopolitan life. They’ve long since grown disenchanted with the industry’s glamour—“been there, done that” women who know its surface shine masks a grittier reality.

We spoke of the tide of gallery closures now sweeping across continents, of the artists left adrift, of the lone consultants hustling to survive. They shared stories from business that exposed the limits—and the ugliness—of human nature. They observed how, compared with the flexibility of finance or start-ups, the art market’s business model remains stubbornly one-note. In the eyes of their friends in other industries, even the title of gallery CEO translates less as visionary leader than as COO, tasked with the mechanics of day-to-day operations.

We laughed at how a single PDF of a preview can now stand in for an entire art fair—if you’re not involved with a project or pursuing business, what is the point of showing up for the spectacle? And when we spoke of “conversion,” it became clear that the question extends far beyond money. Conversion is also about values, about what you choose to prize. For me, with a background in media, the currency is vision: the more you see, the more you know, the wider your horizon—and it is only from that breadth that a truly distinct perspective can emerge.

There was a time when one of the great pleasures of traveling to an art week in a new city was the thrill of discovery. The real gems were often hidden in the booths of smaller galleries—the ones that didn’t bother to send you a PDF. With enough experience walking fairs, and a trained instinct for what sets a work apart, you could spot a young artist’s singular voice. Add a whisper of insider knowledge, and it wasn’t unusual to stumble upon the “next big thing.”

Take, for instance, the stories of major collectors who first encountered Nicolas Party or Yu Nishimura almost by chance at Paris Internationale. But then again, how many Parties or Nishimuras does the art world really produce?

Lately, I’ve noticed an amusing pattern: when people in the art world take MBTI tests, the “FP” types dominate by far. FP stands for feeling over planning—living by instinct rather than structure—and honestly, it couldn’t be more fitting. In this sense, it makes perfect sense that our industry thrives on experiences rather than outcomes. Life, after all, is to be lived, not engineered. Perhaps that also explains the enduring appeal of chasing art weeks around the globe—those events are glamorous, entertaining, and undeniably fun.

Year after year, the carousel of international fairs spins on: new faces entering the scene, old ones defending their territory, proving their relevance. And it’s true—vanish from certain gatherings too often and you risk being forgotten. Yet one has to ask: without an artwork of your own, or something tangible to offer in exchange, what do you really leave behind besides the faint trace of recognition？The art world mirrors the entertainment pages of glossy magazines, where “Who’s Who” columns dutifully chart the faces of influence—Who’s Who in the Art World, Who’s Who on the Power List. But let’s be honest: these are diversions, amusements at best. In real life, the smart ones don’t admire you for knowing “who’s who.” What matters isn’t who you know, but who you are—and what you bring to the table.

To be fair, the art world really is the closest thing society has to a modern-day vanity fair, a place where it’s all too easy to be dazzled by illusions spun above the clouds. Take, for instance, the taxonomy of art-fair VIPs. At the very top are the true power players, the serious collectors granted the coveted “First Choice” passes for morning entry. Then come the social butterflies—the ones who rarely buy but always flutter—waving their afternoon VIP cards. And, with a masterstroke of psychology, fairs also cater to aspirants on the outside looking in, luring them with the so-called “VIP Weekend” during the public days.

The acronym itself, whispered with both irony and affection, has been reimagined more than once as “Very Insecure and Pathetic.” After all, the point of attending a VIP event is often less about the event itself than about not being left out. Those relegated to an afternoon pass, rather than the earliest slots, can’t help but bristle a little—just as Europeans still quietly note their placement at a dinner table, and resent the margins.

But such responses are hardly to be mocked. The pride and disappointment that arise from hierarchy, seating charts, and degrees of importance are simply—inescapably—human.

Running my own physical space has made me more pragmatic—and helped me understand why this industry places greater value on those who can deliver tangible projects and close real deals, rather than on someone who dashes off a sentimental review or poses theatrically for photos in a museum. For all the complaints one might have about the art world’s fragile business models, it has also deepened my respect for those who remain committed to long-term vision.

The theater of human nature in the art world is endlessly complex, yet those who persist over decades often embody a rare kind of purity. I am reminded of something Arne Glimcher, the founding force behind Pace Gallery, once told me early in my career: “I want others to believe in my taste—perhaps that is my vanity.”

I’ve often thought about his choice of words. “Taste” should perhaps be elevated to “discernment.” Because true discernment is not born of passing whims; it is forged through weathering cycles of boom and bust, through resilience shaped by markets in flux, and through a cultivated breadth of perspective. It is only then that taste ripens into stature.

When we speak of “purity,” it’s hard to ignore how our industry conspires against it. Day after day, there are too many exhibitions, too many dinners, too many parties—each one wrapped in the language of “exclusivity,” “privacy,” and the cultivated aura of belonging to an inner circle. It is all too easy to be dazzled, to lose sight of one’s original compass, to become preoccupied with status and hierarchy. And so the mind drifts, the heart grows less pure, and happiness itself begins to feel suspect—often no more than the intoxication of alcohol or the glitter of abundance masquerading as joy.

This summer in the South of France made me reflect deeply on these inescapable industry’s built-in vices.

Summer in the South of France is perhaps the finest place to study the anthropology of the art world and its ever-glittering beau monde. Between the Côte d’Azur and Provence, there are more than seventy galleries and institutions, each hosting a steady stream of summer events. Where there is art, there is beauty—and inevitably, there is social theater.

But this year, my own priorities were different. After three months in China drained by the relentless cycle of “making deals and making noise,” what I needed most was not another vernissage or another dinner party, but a reprieve. And so, my true summer highlight was not found in a gallery or at a villa soirée, but in the simplest of rituals: swimming in the sea with South France country boys.

The hidden pebble beaches of the South of France are often tucked between pine groves, where jagged rocks meet waters that shift from sapphire to emerald, always crystalline to the depths. The village boys I swam with there are not the type of men a woman like me—immersed in the glittering surfaces of the world—would normally encounter, let alone notice. They are unfashionable, yes, but simple and genuine: a species entirely apart from the so-called “urban elites.”

For someone like me, who never turns up to a city dinner without careful preparation, the contrast was striking. Here, I could wear the simplest, cheapest summer dress, carry a basket, let down my guard, and shed the taut performance of city life. To walk to the sea alongside these boys—raised under the South of France sun rather than wrapped in cynicism and cholesterol—was to slip, for a moment, into a different world. The scene, and the feeling, recalled Françoise Sagan’s classic Bonjour Tristesse, that portrait of a rebellious girl’s fleeting, restless summer.

In Cannes, summer begins in earnest on Bastille Day, when the weekly international fireworks competition lights up the sky. One evening, I joined the village boys to watch the spectacle from the beach, shoulder to shoulder with tourists and locals, pressed into the sand by the crowd. It reminded me of my student days in London, standing along the Thames for the New Year’s Eve countdown—the last time I had been in such a throng.

Among the people I know now, this sort of experience is almost unthinkable. In cities like London or New York, holidays and milestones are celebrated in advance and behind closed doors: tables booked at hotels or restaurants, gatherings in friends’ homes, private clubs, or, for the fortunate few, penthouse suites. In the South of France, my art-world and finance friends would be watching the same fireworks from a suite at the Carlton or the deck of someone’s yacht.

Yet as I stood on the beach, looking at the tourists and townspeople—those whom we, through our “inner-circle” lens, so casually label as the masses—I couldn’t help but notice the difference. They were alive in the moment, fully immersed in the sheer joy of the fireworks. Many of those on yachts or in hotel suites, I suspected, were not.

In the beach clubs of Cannes or St. Tropez, people often resemble peacocks in a gilded cage—caught in a dance of rivalry and allure, desire and distrust. There are the seasoned power players, the polished young charmers, the confident alpha men. They can be magnetic, even intoxicating, yet their gaze too often reduces women to ornaments rather than equals.

What passes for friendship or love here feels less like intimacy than like curation. Beautiful companions become accessories, each adding luster to the other’s image. And it makes me reflect on city life, where people are more likely to notice one another’s “package” than their essence. The mantra of urban women—“better alone than compromised”—is complicated; after all, compromise is a matter of perception, and what we label “high quality” is often shaped by filters and projections.

And so the question remains, quiet yet insistent: for those of us who move so easily through the glamour and abundance of the city, do we truly feel content?

For a long time, I believed I was living my passion—that work was life itself. But my days in the South of France made me realize that perhaps I had never truly lived. “Life,” until then, had meant little more than watching the days slip away like water, or circling the globe from fair to fair, chasing the illusion that such a rhythm would lend density and meaning to existence. Only now do I see that what matters more is the ability to feel life’s vitality in both the ordinary and the extraordinary moments—something I had never truly considered before.

That summer in the South of France also brought a deeper understanding: glamour may be beautiful, but it is ephemeral; fame and fortune are possessions outside the self, not guarantees of joy. Those who attain them are not necessarily happy. Instead, it is the simple, unadorned things that offer the truest sense of contentment: the sweetness of peaches at a morning market, the clarity of seawater, the fierce generosity of the sun, the beauty of a view that stirs you, and the bonds of affection that deserve to be cherished always.

I had imagined that the ethereal glow of the South of France would linger—that its magic might leave me radiant, or at least buoyant for another two months. In reality, the hormone rush evaporated the very next day after I returned home.  The glittering parties, once so intoxicating, no longer hold my attention. What interests me now feels far simpler, far truer: tending to the work at hand, and swimming in the sea with European country boys.